


The Blue Angel

by OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Detective Noir, F/M, Femme Fatale, Gangsters, Gen, Introspection, Murder, Mystery, Past Relationship(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-21 12:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4828658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl/pseuds/OriginalImpossibleSouffleGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Crane knew exactly who this kid was, and he also knew that whatever trouble he brought with him wouldn't be worth the payday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cherchez La Femme

**Author's Note:**

> Ha! Me, writing a noir AU! *screams internally* This will turn out fantastically or disastrously, one of those two. 
> 
> Anyway, warnings: Katrina's here. But she never had a relationship with Crane, and there is no family drama and she's gonna speak above a whisper at all times (unless she's telling someone a secret, obvs). Also Hawley's also here, but he's never had a relationship with Jenny or Abbie and it will stay that way. 
> 
> This may fic may include any or all of the following: violence, strong language, adult content, and sexual situations. Also singing. But not by me, so you're cool.
> 
> And finally, let's say this takes place in a world like ours that is permanently stuck in a Noir-y time, even though I'll be using names of places and things that actually exist (anachronisms, yay!). Think... _Dark City_ , only without the creepy bald guys. Okey dokey, here goes!
> 
> Special thanks to my lovely beta readers Lauren and Alyssa. Love you, babes.

He was warm and welcoming when he’d opened the door, something that had surprised her at first. Given recent events, she’d expected an angry dismissal and a slammed door. But August Corbin had smiled and opened the door wide for her, and she’d given a startled “yes” when he asked if she was looking for Joe.

It was a wrench in her plans, of course. Her problem was with Joe, and she’d come determined to make _him_ pay.

An in and out job; walk in, bang bang, walk out, done.

But then the old man had started talking. And despite herself, she’d started to relax, to forget the gun in her purse, and her resolve. August Corbin had always had that knack--to make people feel like they were home, among family. It was probably why he’d won the election.

But then he’d said _it_ , and her purse had fallen from her nerveless fingers to the floor, and the gun was there in plain view.

As she scrambled to get it, she looked up and saw the dawning realization in his eyes. That’s when she heard them, from far away as if she had no connection to them at all.

The sound of two gunshots echoing in the otherwise empty manor.

August fell, and she dropped the gun. She knelt at his side, sorrowful but dry-eyed.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

She pressed her hand against his chest, not knowing if she meant to save or soothe him.

“It wasn’t meant to be you. Never you.”

August gasped his last.

She looked around the room, noticed her purse, and bent to pick it up.

Walk in, bang bang, walk out.

Done.

 

* * *

 

Weak sunlight filtered in through the blinds, waking Ichabod Crane from an alcohol-aided sleep.

He groaned, patted his shirt pockets for a cigarette, then sighed in frustration when the search proved fruitless. He sat up in his chair, ignored his back groaning in protest at having slept in it for the third time this week, shuffled a stack of late payment notices on his desk, then grunted in triumph when finding a crumpled pack of Reds that wasn't completely empty. He lit one and took a deep drag.

_What a prize you are, old chap_ , he thought. _Living in your office, a beauty of a hangover, and your biggest victory is finding a crooked cigarette barely worth the smoking. Mum would be proud._

The thought of his mother sobered him up to a degree he wasn't quite comfortable with, so he got up and headed to what he called his wet bar, but was really a half-empty bottle of cheap rye whiskey and a chipped glass on an end table that had seen better days. He forwent the glass, choosing instead to drink straight from the bottle.

He grimaced at the taste, then braced himself against the renewed pounding in his head.

_First case that walks through the door and offers decent money, I'll get better booze_ , he promised himself.

It took him another minute to realize that the pounding was not in his head, but at his door.

"Speak of the devil," he muttered.

He opened the door abruptly and scowled at the figure standing on the other side of it.

The man on the other side had the fresh-faced look of a boy, but the expensive dark suit and the sad eyes pegged him at a lot older than he seemed. _And no wonder_ , Crane thought, _after all this particular kid had been through_.

Crane knew exactly who this kid was, and he also knew that whatever trouble he brought with him wouldn't be worth the payday.

"Detective Crane?"

The boy gripped a fedora he held in his hands, the movement betraying his nervousness.

"Joseph Corbin, son of the very recently late mayor August Corbin," Crane replied.

He saw the kid try to hide a wince at the mention of his father.

"I--yes. May I please come in?"

Crane shrugged and walked back to his desk, leaving the door open for the kid. He sat heavily in his chair and ignored another twinge of protest from his back.

"Look, mate, before you get excited, I don't do homicides. I'm sorry about your dad and all, but--"

"No! No, detective, you misunderstand. I don't need you to--I'm looking for someone. I need you to help me find her."

Crane's eyebrow rose.

"I'm not in the matchmaking business either, son."

Joe sighed and sat in the chair in front of the desk. It creaked ominously.

"Her name is Jennifer Mills. Jenny," he began.

Crane nodded for him to continue, willing at least to hear the kid out before he turned him down.

Corbin fiddled with the hat as he spoke.

"We were... together. But sometime last year she started pushing me away and then when she was accused of killing dad, I--"

Crane groaned.

"Come on, kid, I just told you I don't do homicides. I'm sure the police have it under control."

"You don't understand, detective, I don't think Jenny did it. We were...hell, we were gonna get hitched once upon a time. She loved dad, she would never kill him."

Crane leaned over his desk, making eye contact.

"There's probably a reason they think she did it, though?"

Corbin tried to hold his gaze, then finally sighs.

"She was found with the murder weapon and my father's blood on her hands."

"Sounds like an open and shut case, son," Crane said, putting out his cigarette in a dangerously overflowing ashtray.

"But she didn't do it! Sure, she ran, but _anybody_ would've!"

Crane sighed.

"I'm sorry, kid, I can't--"

"$5000!"

Crane paused in the act of getting up to usher the kid out of his office.

"Beg pardon?"

"I will pay you $5000 to find Jenny. Before the cops do."

Crane let himself fall back in his chair.

The kid put his hat down on the desk, hurriedly took out his billfold and riffled through the stack of cash in it.

"Five thousand, and you get two right now to get you started."

The kid slammed the money on the desk and Crane eyed it with a sinking feeling somewhere down in the pit of his stomach.

_Fucking trouble_ , he thought.

Still, he knew he could use the damn money. And if it took a desperate kid with a crush on a possible murderess and a pocket full of green to get him through another month without starving--or worse, being sober--then...

"Fine," he gritted out and reached out to take the money, "where would you like me to start?"


	2. The Blue Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crane was familiar with the Angel, but he'd never had the pleasure. It was a haunt for everyone from prominent politicians to seedy gangsters and everyone in between. Usually way above his pay grade.

Before the kid left the office, he had pointed Crane in the direction of a sister and a nightclub called The Blue Angel.

Crane was familiar with the Angel, but he'd never had the pleasure. It was a haunt for everyone from prominent politicians to seedy gangsters and everyone in between. Usually way above his pay grade.

He made sure to put on his best black suit, white shirt, and fedora, the only clothing he owned that wasn't currently wrinkled or smelling of whiskey and cigarettes. He took the time to stash the cash the kid had given him, only keeping a few bills on him for necessities like bribery, booze, or bail, then headed out.

The Blue Angel was owned by an ex-cop called Franklin Irving--also known as "Frankie the Vine," due to his very valuable information brokering services--and protected by a large man they called Big Ash, whom Crane had the pleasure of meeting at the door and who took his job _very_ seriously.

"Look, I promise I have a very good reason for going into that club," Crane explained.

Big Ash grunted.

"You and every lowlife within city limits. I'm not gonna tell you again, asshole: scram."

Crane sighed.

"Can I at least get a minute with a dame who works here? Grace Abigail Mills? I just have a few questions for her, that's all."

Just as Big Ash grabbed his lapels and growled into his face, Irving himself stepped out.

"There a problem here, Ash?" he drawled.

Without letting go of Crane, who was mentally preparing himself for what he knew would probably be a pretty spectacular beating, Ash answered.

"This guy here wants to talk to Abbie. Doesn't know how to take 'no' for an answer."

Irving lit a cigarette and took a drag before addressing Crane.

"And what, exactly, do you have to talk to Abbie about?"

Crane looked pointedly at Big Ash's hands still gripping his shirt and jacket, then, seeing that neither Irving nor Ash were inclined to change the state of affairs, answered.

"I need to see her about her sister. I have some kid who's looking for her."

"Hm. A cop? Dropper?"

Irving calmly flicked the cigarette, brought it back to take another drag.

"Neither. I'm a private investigator, and as far as I can tell, the kid's lovesick and looking for his long lost sweetheart."

"Check his pockets, Ash."

As Ash patted him down, Irving continued.

"I can tell you right now that Jennifer Mills hasn't set foot in this club since she stopped running with Hawley's crew. Don't think Abbie's seen her, either."

"Appreciate that, but I'd still like to talk to the lady, if you don't mind."

Crane's pockets turned out an ID, a brand new pack of smokes, a couple hundred from the roll Joey Corbin had given him, and a pocket watch.

Ash handed the ID to Irving, who inspected it, then handed everything back to Crane.

"Englishman, huh?"

"The accent didn't give me away?"

A punch in the side from Big Ash knocked the wind--and probably a couple months of life--out of Crane.

"Ash doesn't much like smartasses," Irving informed Crane serenely.

Crane coughed.

"Would've never guessed," he wheezed, then tensed when Ash stepped forward again.

Irving sighed.

"Okay, English, you don't strike me as a liar, so I'm gonna let you in. But you cause any trouble in my club and I'll have Ash plug you and send you back in pieces back to Merry Olde, understand?"

Big Ash stepped away from the door as Crane straightened, his ribs aching. 

As he stepped inside, Irving called out to him.

"You be careful, English. You're at the very edge of a deep and dangerous pool."

_Don't worry, pal, I can swim_ , Crane thought, but nodded at Irving in thanks just the same and walked into the club.

 

* * *

 

 

The place was full up, and Crane had to maneuver quickly around several drunk people. Every sudden movement had an answering twinge from his ribs, and he fought the urge to grimace every time.

_At least the back pain has a buddy now,_ he thought wryly.

He found an empty seat and gestured at the bartender. When the bartender set a Scotch in front of him, Crane took the opportunity to ask about Grace Mills.

"Sorry, pal, I don't know no one by that name," the bartender shook his head and started to turn and serve a guy who looked very much like Governor Parrish, but Crane reached over and grabbed his sleeve.

"Then I think you may know her by 'Abbie'?" 

The bartender, annoyed but cooperative, nodded his head at the stage on the opposite side of the room.

"That's her up there, in the middle of her set. I'll warn ya, if you wanna talk to her, you'll have to stand at the end of a very long line. Every sap in here's half in love with her."

Crane followed the gesture to find a stunningly beautiful woman in a sparkling baby blue dress and a gardenia in her swept-up hair. The slit in her dress showcased an amount of smooth leg that left his throat dry. But it was her voice that kept him hooked.

_Bloody hell, she sounds like--_

"--the Angel," the bartender said behind him.

Crane frowned but didn't turn around.

"Sorry?"

"When she wears blue, Irving calls her the Angel," the bartender repeated, amused. "Like in the name of the club?"

"Right," Crane murmured, attention firmly on Abbie.

The bartender returned to his duties but Crane barely noticed. 

 

_Maybe I will meet him Sunday_

_Maybe Monday... maybe not_

_Still I'm sure to meet him one day_

_Maybe Tuesday... will be my good news day_

 

She tended to close her eyes as she sang, but when she reached "good news day," her eyes somehow met his across the crowded room. It took his breath away and reminded him of the stories his mother used to tell, about women with voices so captivating that they lured men to their deaths. As a boy, the stories had struck him as slightly ridiculous, for what man would willingly follow a voice to his own end? But now he found himself believing wholeheartedly in sirens, and knew exactly how easy it would be to believe his life would be a small price to pay for the chance to be serenaded forever by one Grace Abigail Mills.

_Steady on, Ichabod._

She finished her song and Crane was freed to turn and get reacquainted with his drink, which he drained completely. He turned back around when Abbie spoke.

"Now this next song is my last for the night--" she laughed at the sound of disappointment from the crowd, but continued, "and it was _supposed_ to be something a little more up tempo... but I think..."

She smiled as the crowd settled down and her eyes sought and met his again.

"I think we're all in the mood for something a little dreamier, what do you say?"

At the crowd's resounding "yeah!" Abbie gestured at the band to follow her lead as she began.

 

_Somewhere, someday_

_We'll be close together, wait and see_

_Oh, and by the way_

_This time the dream's on me_

 

Crane had to work to remind himself why he was here. It was too easy to be swept up by Abbie--especially when it was clear she had noticed him. At least it would be easier to get to speak with her if he'd already caught her attention. He watched her as she finished the song and took her bows, then made her way through the room to the recently vacated seat next to him.

She ignored him as she called out to the bartender.

"Hey, Jonesy, be a doll and help a girl satisfy her thirst, will you?"

"Sure thing, Abbie," the bartender replied, then turned to prepare her drink--a gin and tonic.

"Oh, and..." she turned to inspect Crane head to toe, "get my friend here another of whatever he's drinking."

After the bartender set their drinks in front of them with a wink at Abbie--which she cheekily returned--she addressed Crane directly.

"So what brings a guy like you to a place like this?"

Crane could feel the flush her attention brought to his face and hoped to god she wouldn't notice.

_Get a grip, old man,_ he chided himself.

He cleared his throat.

"Well... believe it or not, Miss Mills," he started, "that would be you." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pertinent info:
> 
> "Dropper" is slang for "hitman."
> 
> Crane's suit:
> 
> [Imagine Tom in this.](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2009/02/24/article-1154622-038277E4000005DC-60_634x379.jpg) You're welcome.
> 
>    
> Abbie's dress (in red, but you get the gist): 
> 
> [Try to imagine it in baby blue.](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/27/70/37/2770374b0b88468db0c25f465079c952.jpg) You're welcome again.
> 
> Abbie's hair:
> 
>  [Try to imagine it with a gardenia in it, lol.](http://sev.h-cdn.co/assets/cm/15/09/54ee6ff1c6a63_-_undone-bun-main-xl-53507315-lgn.jpg)
> 
>    
> The songs Abbie sings at the club are as follows (for those interested): 
> 
>  
> 
> [The Man I Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xm9BgmbDiL4)
> 
>  
> 
> [This Time the Dream's On Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XYCXLvUCRkM)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> And if you wanna know who Jonesy's supposed to be, I'll remind you of poor, ill-fated [Devon Jones](http://sleepyhollow.wikia.com/wiki/Devon_Jones).


End file.
